


my held breath fills the room with love

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post - A Dance With Dragons, it will be mostly Jaime/Brienne though, so who knows what you're going to get?, this is a collection of tumblr prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: A collection of tumblr prompts and odd bits of writing that have nowhere else to go.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 21
Kudos: 98





	my held breath fills the room with love

**Author's Note:**

> In an effort to help the tag reach 8000 fics before the end of the year, I'm finally collecting random stuff I wrote and only posted on tumblr into a collection! I'll tag each chapter appropriately and indicate if it's connected to one of my other fics.
> 
> This first one is book!canon compliant and takes place after some vague final battle at Winterfell.

Before he opens his eyes, Jaime notices two things: that _every_ part of his body is screaming with some major or minor ache, and that, wherever he is, the sun is shining.

Even cracking one eye open is painful, but it offers Jaime some scant details. He’s prone on a bed, and the mattress isn’t straw. He’s also tucked, quite snugly, under a mountain of quilts. Jaime tries to sit, groans in agony as pain lances through his right arm, and regrets it immediately. 

_What in the seven hells did I do to my right arm?_

The groan alerts someone, and by the time Samwell Tarly is staring down at him, Jaime is prone once more and gritting his teeth in pain.

“What,” he gasps, “did I do to my _right_ arm?”

“I wasn’t present, but the tale is you threw yourself in front of Lady Brienne, and your right arm held a shield. The impact broke your forearm.”

 _Everything_ floods back--the Night King, Jon Snow wielding a flaming blade, the keep at Winterfell, breached--

 _Brienne._

“In the bed next to yours,” Samwell replies, even though Jaime hadn’t realized he called the wench’s name aloud.

He turns his head to the right to see a tangle of straw-blond hair poking out of a mountain of quilts quite similar to his own.

“I-Is she--?”

 _Dying, and I never told her what she means to me._ Blind panic courses through him, and Jaime nearly asks for a bucket to wretch into.

“Asleep,” Samwell replies, “A heavy dose of dreamwine and milk of the poppy. She broke her leg but kept trying to get up and help with the wounded. You should sleep more, too, ser.”

Jaime wants to go to Brienne, but Samwell is passing him a cup, and Jaime lets the dreamwine take him under. When he awakes again, hours (or perhaps days) later, Samwell is gone, and Gilly is tending the patients in the infirmary.

This time, Jaime will see Brienne if it kills him.

With some coordinated effort, sitting is easier. Gilly seems to know Jaime’s aim and moves a three-legged stool to beside Brienne’s bed. _Does everyone know that I always go to her?_

He didn’t _think_ he was quite so obvious.

It takes Jaime an age to traverse the space between the beds, and there’s sweat on his brow by the time he collapses to the stool.

“Water, ser,” Gilly passes him a cup, “You can wake her, but the dreamwine leaves the mind foggy.”

Jaime nods and shakes Brienne’s shoulder over the quilt. Then, he whispers, “Wench, if you could do as I ask, just this once, and wake.”

It takes a few moments, but Brienne’s eyes flutter open; they look like deep ocean pools in the firelight. They look like they could carry Jaime under, and he’d never seek to get away. 

Her gaze is unfocused, and she blinks slowly before whispering, “You’re _very_ handsome.”

Gilly starts giggling and slaps her hand over her mouth to muffle it.

“I’ve been told,” Jaime replies, “but never by you, wench.”

“Well, it’s quite true, ser.”

He looks at Gilly, “Did the lady hit her head?”

“The dreamwine, ser--sometimes the effect lingers. It makes people say strange things.”

“Indeed.”

“When I was a girl,” Brienne giggles, and it turns to a hiccup, “I used to wish a handsome knight like you would come and wake me with a kiss.”

“There’s a hundred better knights you could wish for, my lady.”

Brienne's furrowed brow is an expression Jaime’s seen a hundred times, but the petulant pout entirely new. It almost looks ridiculous on Brienne’s features. Then, she is wriggling to free her arm from the quilts and fumbling for Jaime’s hand.

“Jaime.” His name brings Jaime great relief; her words were so strange he feared Brienne didn’t remember him. “Did you know that I love you?” 

Brienne _smiles,_ and it’s so transformative, so arresting, that Jaime feels himself flushing. He’d look away, but that expression on Brienne’s face may never come again. He tightens his grip on her hand and thinks he’s the biggest fool that ever lived for waiting so long to tell her.

“I love you, too, Brienne,” he leans over and gives her the most chaste of kisses; she giggles again. “Later, if you don’t recall it, I’ll be happy to repeat the words.”

_Every day, for as long as you’ll have me._


End file.
